Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Dylan
The gossip starts spreading through Vance Enterprises like wildfire.
I didn’t notice it at first, with most people giving me a wide berth as CEO, but after Jake’s comments got more pointed, I kept my eyes peeled.
It started with small sparks. The guard at the lobby giving us pointed glances as we enter the building together after morning coffee outside.
(Avery insisted after a co-worker kept asking her why I bought her java every morning.) The whispers from workers as Avery and I continue our (completely professional) late-night brainstorming sessions.
The frowns from the board members when they see us so much as breathe in the same room together.
Case in point, I sit in a board meeting trying to focus on quarterly projections while watching Avery present the legal analysis for our acquisition deal.
She commands the room with quiet authority, breaking down complex liability structures into digestible pieces, her voice steady and sure. This is Avery at her best—brilliant, prepared, untouchable.
But I notice the tight set of her shoulders, the way her fingers grip the presentation remote just a little too hard.
Half the room watches her with barely concealed speculation instead of listening to her expertise, and my jaw clenches with each whispered comment that floats across the conference table.
"...the indemnification clause in section twelve provides adequate protection against potential IP claims," Avery continues, clicking to the next slide. Her eyes meet mine briefly—professional, distant, exactly as we agreed—before moving on.
Two men from accounting lean together, and I catch fragments of their conversation. "...convenient timing..." and "...fast track..." and something that sounds suspiciously like "...sleeping her way..."
My hands curl into fists under the table. These people have worked with Avery for about four months now. They've seen her stay until midnight reviewing contracts, watched her catch errors that saved us millions, witnessed her go toe-to-toe with opposing counsel and win.
Yet suddenly, all of that means nothing.
"Questions?" Avery asks, finishing her presentation.
Harrison from the legal department raises her hand. "Excellent analysis, Atty. Cole. The Miller team will be impressed." Her tone is pointed, aimed at the whispers, and I feel a surge of gratitude for the older woman's support.
But Richard from the board isn't done. "Perhaps we should have outside counsel review this as well. Just to ensure... objectivity."
The implication hangs heavy in the air. My objectivity. Avery's competence. Everything we've both worked for has been reduced to office gossip and innuendo.
"That won't be necessary," I say, my voice carrying the edge I use in hostile negotiations. "Atty. Cole's analysis is thorough and accurate."
Richard backs down with a grumble.
After the meeting, people file out slowly, conversations buzzing with thinly veiled speculation. I'm gathering my materials when I hear it—one of the senior partners muttering to another: "Wonder if she earned that position or just got friendly with the right person."
My vision goes red. I'm halfway out of my chair when Avery's hand brushes my arm—brief, professional, barely there—and she shakes her head slightly. Her eyes hold mine for a heartbeat.
Not here. Not now.
She's right, but it takes everything in me to let her walk out of that room with her head high while people whisper behind her back.
The rest of the day crawls by in a haze of meetings and barely contained frustration. My phone lights up throughout the afternoon—texts from Avery that help me breathe:
Board loved the quarterly numbers. You killed it.
Someone left a passive-aggressive note about "maintaining boundaries" on my desk. I used it as a coffee coaster.
Thai food tonight? I need curry and complaining time.
That last one makes me smile despite everything.
We've developed this routine over the past weeks—dinner at my place or hers, decompressing from the day, learning each other's rhythms outside the office walls.
Last night she fell asleep on my couch while reviewing contracts, and I covered her with a blanket and worked beside her, content just to share the same space.
We haven’t officially defined what our relationship is, and I don’t mind. There’s no one else I can see myself with, and I’m the only one who gets to see her like this. It’s… comforting, just having the space to be near her without expectations.
By 7 PM, we're sprawled on my living room floor with containers of pad thai and green curry spread between us. Avery's shoes are kicked off, her hair released from its professional bun, and she looks younger like this, more vulnerable.
"It's getting worse," she says finally, stabbing at her curry with perhaps more force than necessary. "Today, someone from Customer Service asked if I'm really…" She shows a quotation mark with her fingers, "involved with management."
The words strike something deep inside me. "Who?"
"Doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."
She sets down her food and pulls her knees to her chest. "They're questioning everything, Dylan. Every case I've won, every contract I've negotiated—suddenly it's all suspect. Like the past months of sixteen-hour work days mean nothing."
I want to storm back to the office and make a scene. Want to call an all-hands meeting and list every one of Avery's accomplishments, every dollar she's saved the company, every brilliant legal maneuver she's executed.
But that's my anger talking, not strategy.
"We'll document everything," I say instead, my mind shifting into problem-solving mode. "Every case, every client testimonial. We'll build an undeniable record of your merit. Paper trail so thick that no one can question—"
"Dylan." Her voice is soft, tired. "You can't fight this for me."
"Watch me."
She looks at me with something like gratitude and exhaustion mixed together, and suddenly, I understand.
This isn't just about defending her work—it's about me trying to fix something that my position makes worse.
Every defense I mount only reinforces the narrative that she needs my protection.
“I… I know you can fight your own battles, but I just hate feeling so helpless.”
"Hey. Thank you," she says quietly. "For fighting for me like this."
I set down my food and move closer to her, taking her hand. Her fingers are cold, and I rub them gently between mine.
"You're fighting too. And you deserve to be valued for your work."
My heart is pounding. We've been careful these past few weeks, moving slowly, letting her set the pace. But watching her doubt herself because of office gossip, seeing her shoulders bend under the weight of others' judgment—I can't let her think she's alone in this.
"I love you, Avery."
The words hang between us, heavy and irreversible. Her eyes go wide, and I watch her face cycle through surprise, fear, and something that might be joy before settling on panic.
"And I won't let anyone make you question your worth," I continue, needing to get it all out. "Not the board, not that shitty ex, not the voice in your head that's probably telling you this was a mistake."
She opens her mouth, closes it, and I can see her struggling with words that won't come.
"You don't have to say it back," I tell her quickly. "I just needed you to know. I need you to understand that this isn't casual for me. That when I defend you, it's not because I think you're weak. It's because you matter to me more than this entire company."
Avery stands abruptly and walks to the window, her back to me, and for a terrible moment, I think I've pushed too hard, said too much too soon. The city spreads below us, lights beginning to twinkle in the gathering dusk, and her reflection in the glass shows me nothing.
Then she speaks, voice thick with emotion: "I'm scared."
I stay where I am, giving her space to continue.
"I'm terrified, actually. Because I think I love you too, and I don't know how to do that without losing myself.
With Oliver, I became smaller and smaller until I almost disappeared entirely.
I changed everything about myself to fit into his life, and by the end, I didn't even recognize who I'd become. "
I stand slowly, move to her, but don't touch. Not yet.
"That was Oliver," I say carefully. "Not love. Love isn't supposed to make you smaller, Avery."
"Then what's it supposed to do?" She turns to face me, and there are tears tracking down her cheeks. "Because right now it feels like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff, and everyone's waiting to watch me fall."
I reach up slowly, giving her time to pull away, and brush the tears from her cheeks. "Then we'll figure it out together. You don't have to lose yourself to love me, Avery. That's the whole point. I fell for you exactly as you are—sharp edges, brilliant mind, terrible coffee addiction, and all."
A watery laugh escapes her. "The coffee's not that bad."
"It's terrible, and you know it."
She looks up at me, something shifting in her expression, and then she's kissing me—soft and vulnerable and trusting in a way that makes my chest ache. When we part, she whispers against my lips: "I love you too. God help me, but I do."
We spend the rest of the evening on my couch, her head on my shoulder, my fingers running through her hair.
We talk about safer things—the current case timeline, her sister's latest dating disaster, my mother's insistence on hosting Sunday dinner with Avery.
But underneath it all is this new truth between us, fragile and precious.
"We'll handle the office gossip," I tell her as she's getting ready to leave. "Together."
She nods, but I see the doubt creeping back in. "What if it affects your position? Your reputation?"
"Then we deal with it."
"Dylan—"